Wonder Woman and Superman in Clark Versus the Beard
by NWHS
Summary: This one-shot is a prequel to "It's the Beard." However, it is also a standalone story that explores a bit of Clark's feelings after his return to Earth after the Doomed crossover event.


Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Clark Versus the Beard**

**Author's Note: **This story is a prequel to "It's the Beard." But it is also a standalone story.

* * *

With one hand, Clark grabbed his mug of coffee from his desk, and with the other he scratched his beard. Taking a sip from the mug, he frowned. Eyes blazing red, Clark emitted a quick blast of heat, taking his coffee from tepid to steaming hot in less than two seconds.

He took another sip, felt the warmth of the rich, flavorful brew hit his tongue, then slide down his throat. Yes, that's the way coffee should taste.

Clark smiled and scratched his beard again.

And scratched.

And scratched.

He really should just shave the hairy beast off. At first, Clark enjoyed the novelty of the thing. He'd never been one for much facial hair. Although, while in college, he grew a beard just to prove to himself that he could. That had been freshman year when Clark was going for mature eighteen instead of fresh-off-the-Kent-farm geek.

The hairy beast lasted all of three months. His youthful ego deflated when he'd come home for winter break and Ma had taken one look at him and said, "What is that dirt on your face, Clark?"

She'd frowned, walked up to him, and ran her hand over his face. "Where's my handsome boy under all that hair?" she'd asked, a mother's disapproval in her question.

That night, Clark had used Pa's razor and gotten rid of his first true act of manhood and independence. That had been years ago, and Clark hadn't grown a mustache, no less a beard, since.

That was, until his two-month flight through a Black Hole after defeating Brainiac.

Clark scratched his chin again, feeling the coarse whiskers under his palm. He wondered if Ma were alive if she would feel the same way about his beard now as she had way back then. As a man who will be thirty in a few years, Clark now understood his mother's sweetly stated, but harsh reaction to his beard.

She'd called him her "boy" that night. But, at nearly nineteen, Clark was no longer Ma Kent's boy. And, his experience in college, as limited as it had been then, had matured him even more in the few months he'd been away from home. Simply put, Clark was growing into a man and his mother hadn't yet come to terms with the development.

But his beard, as insignificant as it may have been to others, had marked a critical period in the lives of the Kents. Truth and reality had mixed into one unavoidable conclusion – time, life, and forward motion could not be stopped, only prepared for and dealt with as they came.

And, eventually, Ma had come to terms. No longer seeing Clark as a boy in need of his mother's emotional strength and wisdom, but as a man capable of guiding his own life, setting his own righteous path.

Yet the beard hadn't returned. Clark faithful to shave daily. The image of a clean-cut Clark Kent, and eventually Superman, one that his friends and colleagues had come to expect.

Finishing off his coffee, Clark placed the mug down. Lacing his fingers together, he cracked them before getting back to work. The article was nearly done. Based on the five hour time difference between Metropolis and London, Clark figured Diana and Hessia were winding down their evening night out. Unless, of course, Diana decided to swing past one of those nightclubs she liked so much.

Clark frowned. Them spending time apart, this past week, had been his idea. A pretty stupid idea, he had no problem admitting to himself. Since returning from the Black Hole and, from what Diana had thought happened to him, death, Clark had spent every day with her. He'd basically hijacked the woman and all her free time.

He'd told her the truth when he'd returned. She was all he'd thought about while he was away. A major force driving him hard and furious back to Earth. And when Clark had finally reunited with Diana, tears in her eyes and a lump of love and relief in his throat, he knew.

Knew with the same certainty that his beard of youth was a turning point in his life, so too were his feelings for Diana. And while he may have succumbed to pressure and gotten rid of the beard that marked him as a man, but didn't define his manhood, Clark had no intention of giving up Diana, of cutting her out of his life. The same way he had cut the beard from his face, with trembling hands and a defeated spirit. A weakness unbecoming of him.

A mistake he would never make again.

So Clark had monopolized the poor woman's every waking hour with his overwhelming need to be near her. To slake their mutual desire to talk, touch, laugh and be – together. But they had responsibilities that extended beyond Diana's London home and Clark's Metropolis apartment. Especially Diana, who had an entire nation of Amazons to contend with.

And he had been keeping her from her duty, with his selfish need to affirm their love and the return of a life nearly lost to the Doomsday virus and Brainiac. But the days and weeks, since his return, had gone by. With Clark, slowly but surely, beginning to feel more like his old self.

But the emotional wounds from his ordeal were still there, just under his tough Kryptonian skin. The hurt and pain of having failed to save so many lives – to Doomsday and then to Brainiac. Lives that were precious, special, and irreplaceable.

Nothing like the beard he'd shaved, all those years ago, but could so easily get back whenever he wanted.

Clark ran his hand over his jaw again, enjoying the feel of the texture but also hating the memories it evoked. Memories of pain, desperation, fear, and bone-deep loneliness. A man, a superman, yet still, sometimes, that eighteen-year-old man-child who would do anything for his mother's approval, her warm, supporting smile.

Clark began to type. The words flowing effortlessly from him, like water through a sieve.

_What's it like to have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? The fact is, experiences vary, and the symptoms are not the only effects. Shame and guilt are often underliers. Here are a few personal accounts of living with PTSD._

"_I lost my innocence during four and a half months in a Turkish jail, powerless and terrified because no-one knew I was there. I saw brutality beyond what anybody could imagine. I had been so brutalized and displaced mentally by the horrors of the experience that when I was released I was a puppet. In the beginning, I wasn't aware that I had post-traumatic stress disorder. When I returned to Australia, my mental state manifested in anxiety and nightmares and night terrors and fear. I started to avoid people, I lost my job, I lost my home, I lost the beautiful young woman that I'd married and the two young children that we had… It cost me a lot. And I still didn't know about PTSD. Now, it is a recognized mental illness, but in the society we live in it is seen as a weakness, or you are seen as a coward. They talk of combat fatigue and battle stress, but I saw it clearly that PTSD is horror fatigue. I went through the Prozac era, with doctors pumping me with sedatives, and I descended into another hell – prescription drugs – almost as bad as had happened to me in Turkey. I'm improving now and Picking Up The Peaces is a very important part of my life, and a natural supplement to the hard work I put in to get off benzos." _

_-Kenny_

_I was incredibly nervous the first time I sought help. I was really doing it for my family and didn't see how talking would help, but when I spoke to my counselor and met other people with PTSD, I realized I wasn't the only one. My counselor taught me how to relax when I got scared or angry and gave me the tools to deal with everyday life. We started talking about what happened. This was really hard to start with, but it got easier after a while. I talked a lot about the flashbacks I was having that made me feel angry. How could this have happened to me? Why couldn't I sleep? Why couldn't I stop the nightmares and thinking about the riots, the burning buildings and the mayhem of those couple of days? These were not the kind of questions I could talk to my wife, Kate, about, but it felt good talking to someone about it. It's been a difficult road for me and my family, but I'm learning to deal with my demons, and my future is looking brighter."_

_-Samuel_

"_It took me 30 years to find out I had PTSD. I'd known there was something wrong and spent countless hours and dollars trying to 'fix' myself. When the diagnosis came, it was an amazing relief… at last I could understand why my actions and reactions for so long had been so irrational. But that was only the first step. Jumping through hoops to have the condition officially recognized and treated was almost as bad as the original traumas – and this time around I lacked the resources of a bullet-proof 20-year-old. My GP said 'I was in Vietnam at the same time with the Medical Corps. Best holiday I ever had. Who put you up to this scam?" The symptoms worsened. I couldn't work or concentrate, became a virtual hermit for about five years, withdrawing further emotionally from my family, often in depression or anger, with painful reactions to noise. Decades of sleep deprivation and use of only the lowest moods. Treatment since has helped; the flashbacks are gone, I can now shop and walk in crowded areas, and loud noises rarely send me into a quivering mess. I still hit the wall, but the good times are lasting longer."_

_-Tina_

Clark stopped typing when his fingers began to shake. Balling them into tight fists, Clark willed stillness into his rebellious limbs. After a while, the shaking subsided, and Clark managed to relax. Instinctively, his hand went to his face, scratching at the beard. A pitiful nervous habit that began the night of his return to Earth.

Clark read the last few paragraphs of his article, recalling each interview with a sensory clarity that, at times, disturbed even him. With all his strength and might, emotionally, psychologically, Clark Kent was as human as anyone. And, like Kenny, Samuel, and Tina, Clark suffered from PTSD. Sure, no one, save Diana, saw him without the public mask to notice. He'd even managed to fool Bruce and Lana, which was no easy feat because they knew him so well. As Clark Kent and as Superman.

But Diana saw all. The ugly and raw pain that lived within him existed behind closed doors where armor and alien genetics didn't protect the soul from pain, the heart from guilt.

So Clark had let Diana comfort him, a war god who knew the acrid taste of war on an organic level no one else could fathom. Not even an alien from an advanced civilization.

But he'd been holding onto her too tightly. She wasn't that beard of old. Wasn't a symbol of his manhood, wasn't an itch in need of scratching, wasn't disposable or fleeting.

She was Diana. And Clark knew, no matter how many languages he could speak, he wouldn't come up with a word to better describe his Amazon goddess.

Which was why, this past week, he'd stepped back and gotten his bearings. No one liked a smothering man. And, until this thing with Doomsday and Brainiac, Clark hadn't been. But, in fairness, he'd not only nearly lost himself, but Earth and all that he loved and fought to protect. Up to and including Diana.

Clark stood, stretched, and smiled. Making his way away from his desk and to the kitchen, Clark began pulling out food from the frig. In no time at all, he had a bowl of steaming beef stew on his dining room table, toasted garlic bread, and a glass of Riesling.

He sat across from where he'd placed the food and waited. He didn't have to wait long. From behind him and in his bedroom, Clark heard a whoosh from the window he'd left open. And then the sound of high heels hitting hardwood flooring followed by running water from his bathroom.

Then he heard nothing but a heartbeat – close and pounding with a soul-stirring cadence that had Clark turning around.

There, a mere ten feet in front of him, levitating in a sexy dress and feet no longer in shoes, was the woman he'd fight Doomsday and Brainiac all over again, if it meant saving her.

For a moment, neither spoke. Just drank the other in, with adoring eyes and pounding hearts.

Then Clark, dammit, scratched his chin again.

Diana's eyes dropped to the hand on his face, heat suddenly in her eyes. Causing a reply heat in his own.

Clark closed his eyes, took a deep breath and said without opening his eyes, "Do you have an aversion to my neighbors, the elevator, or the apartment key I gave you?" Already smiling, Clark opened his eyes, only to find Diana no longer where she'd been.

Turning back around in his chair, he stared across the dining room table at a seated Diana. A spoon in her hand and hovering above the soup he'd laid out for her.

"How did you do that without me noticing?"

Diana shrugged, lowered her spoon into the soup, and then lifted it to her mouth. She tasted the beef stew, smiling in gratitude when she did so.

"If you keep feeding me like this, I'm going to gain thirty pounds."

Clark leaned back in his chair, giving Diana's toned, fit body a slow, appreciative perusal.

"I highly doubt that. Not with your metabolism and daily workout routine. Besides, you don't eat nearly enough for all that you do in a day."

Diana ate more of the stew, sipping from the glass of wine but ignoring the garlic bread beside her.

"I eat plenty, Clark. You don't have to always cook for me."

Actually, she didn't. In fact, the longer they dated and the more time they spent together, the more Clark learned about Diana. And what Clark had learned was that while Diana would try most any kind of food, she missed meals. Worse, she never seemed to realize how infrequently she ate. And, for her to have such a high metabolism, when she did eat, the portions weren't enough to offset how fast she would burn it off. Which was why Clark, as often as he could, would cook her hearty meals. Like the beef stew she was steadily making her way through.

"The bread, too, Diana."

She shook her head. "No, this will be enough."

"The bread, too, Diana," Clark repeated, his voice laced with the same stubborn tone as Diana's.

Instead of glaring at him with a willfulness Clark knew Diana capable, she smiled at him and said, "What are you going to do if I don't?" Then, because Diana had a sensual, wild side Clark had unearthed, she licked those luscious red lips of hers, lifted her foot and settled it between his legs.

Then those cute toes of hers began to play, rubbing up and down, making Clark forget all about Diana's refusal to eat all of her dinner.

Clark closed his eyes, scooted closer to the edge of his chair. Unconsciously making it easier for Diana's long legs to reach him under the table.

She took advantage, rubbing him with greater intensity and precision.

Clark moaned, his head thrown back, eyes closed, hand gripping the chair beside him.

And still Diana rubbed, her sensual massage taking him dangerously close to the edge of blissful completion.

"I missed you today," Diana said, her voice a husky purr. "It was nice spending time with Hessia and taking in a play, but I missed your voice."

"Did you?" It was a mindless question. He'd missed her too, and from how fast she'd managed to bring Clark to a flagpole erection, how much he'd missed her was quite obvious.

"Yes, Hessia says I'm addicted."

Her toes dug in deep, finding the head and making it weep for more of her touch. Jeez, but the woman was killing him. With her touch, as well as the conversation she insisted on having at this moment.

"Addicted to what?" Clark unbuttoned his pants, then slid the zipper all the way down. Giving himself a modicum of relief.

"To this, to you."

Clark's eyes popped opened.

Diana was staring at him. The Riesling gone and the garlic bread untouched. Her eyes, once more, filled with blue heat.

"To this, to you," she repeated, drawing her magnificent foot from him. Diana stood, pushed the chair she was sitting in to the side. Then, because Diana was the most amazing girlfriend ever, she began to strip out of her dress.

A dress that did a bit more than hint at her delicious curves and flawless skin.

Gulping, Clark could do nothing but watch as Diana's dress fell to the floor. Leaving her in a black, lace strapless bra and panties that, Clark's eager erection knew had to be the thong he'd brought her … for him, for Valentine's Day.

"You're killing me," he groaned.

"Not yet, but the night is still young and you're the strongest male I know. I have confidence you can handle this Amazon."

Clark grinned and rose from the table, not bothering to catch his jeans when it fell to his knees. Kicking out of them, Clark moved with human slowness, refusing to give Diana the satisfaction of having him rush to have her in his bed.

Although, hell yes, sometimes he wondered why he ever let her out of it.

Her knowing smile said she'd grasped his ploy and wasn't fazed by his feigned cool in the face of his very obvious need for her.

By the time Clark wiggled out of his jeans and a red shirt his washing-machine-challenged girlfriend had shrunk, Diana had retreated to his bedroom.

Gazing down at his bobbing erection, Clark was done with being coy.

Off he went, at superhuman speed.

When he landed on a waiting Diana, she laughed. "Thank you for dinner. It was delicious." Wrapping her arms around him, Diana pulled Clark in for their first kiss of the day. "May I have my dessert now?"

"You can have your dessert anytime you want."

"Is that so?" Diana wiggled underneath Clark, compelling a not so manly moan of want and need from his throat. "I thought you wanted me to consume the garlic bread first." She nipped his lower lip. "I can, you know, eat the rest of my dinner before having my dessert." A lick to his upper lip. "Is that what you want me to do?" A bite to his chin. "Make us both wait for this." A soft purr against his beard. "Mmmm, I never knew how sexy a beard could be on a male."

Two hands found his face, fingers gliding through the hair. Right before Diana pulled his face to her own and kissed him, plundering Clark's mouth with her seeking, hungry tongue.

He kissed her back, opening his mouth wide for her greedy exploration. Diana's hands keeping their faces wonderfully close.

Clark sank into the kiss, his own hands going to Diana's firm waist. Fingers skimming and caressing and adoring the silky softness of her creamy, tanned skin.

"When will you cut it?" Diana asked against his mouth.

Clark pulled back, so he could look down at Diana. "Cut what?"

Hands still on his face, in his beard, Diana's thumbs ran over his cheeks.

"What makes you think I'm going to get rid of my beard?"

Diana let her hands fall from his face, a dim smile playing across her lips. "Because it's not what people expect of Superman. Because it doesn't fit the image of Superman. The Superman people think they know." Diana's smile faded even more. Her eyes holding his in a painful, knowing way. "And Superman doesn't need to hide from the world … or himself. Not behind a beard or anything else."

Clark rolled off Diana, his eyes going to the white ceiling instead of the woman who saw too much when she looked at him.

"I'm not hiding, Diana."

She said nothing.

"I'm not."

Silence.

Clark continued to stare at the ceiling, not knowing what to say. He wasn't hiding. He wasn't. Well, he'd just been … Clark didn't know. Since returning, he'd interviewed dozens of people with PTSD, from soldiers of past and current wars to survivors of natural disasters. Their stories eerily similar in the impact on their lives and the psychological tolls on their minds.

"…_Every day felt surreal…"_

"…_I was so tired all of the time…"_

"…_I felt like I was watching from the sidelines…"_

"…_My mind seemed to switch off when I needed it most…"_

"…_My legs would start to tremble and giveway…"_

"…_Sometimes I would become so angry. Why did this have to happen to me?…"_

"…_It was as though I wasn't there…"_

"…_time was standing still…"_

"…_I felt like I was watching things from above…"_

"…_I couldn't keep eye contact. I had to know what was happening around me…"_

A hand touched his, a reassuring weight. "I like your beard. It's different and sexy, and I love the way it feels against my body." The hand tightened around his. "But I like unmasked Clark even more."

He squeezed Diana's hand, feeling her strength as much as his own. "Are you saying I should cut the beard?"

Diana lifted onto an elbow and stared down at him. "No, Clark. Whether you keep the beard is your decision. Just be sure you know why you want to keep or get rid of it. Whatever your decision, make it for the right reason. Beard or clean shaven, you're still the man I …"

Clark waited for Diana to say the four-letter word that she still had far too much difficulty saying.

When she didn't finish her sentence, he narrowed his eyes. "You do that on purpose."

"Do what?"

Clark sat up in bed. "You know what. Just for that, I'm going to cut my beard and never grow it back."

Diana's blue eyes flickered with both challenge and lust. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would. Besides, I don't like the fact that you seem to prefer bearded Clark to clean shaven Clark."

Diana flopped onto her back. "Now you're just being ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous. I'm pretty sure we've had more sex since I grew the beard than in all the time we've been together."

Uncharacteristically, Diana rolled her eyes. "Hyperbole much, Clark. We've had copious amounts of sex this past month because we've been virtually living together. And, if you noticed" –she pointed between them –"we aren't having sex now, although we're both naked and on your very nice bed."

Virtually living together. Yeah, they had been. And it had been nice. More than nice, actually.

Clark smiled down at Diana. "Well, let's do something about the naked and very nice bed part."

Diana yanked Clark down, her hands going immediately to his beard, her mouth to his lips.

Yeah, Diana damn sure liked the beard.

Two hours later, spooned against Diana, Clark heard a soft knock on his door. Ignoring it, Clark closed his eyes. Whoever it was could just go away.

But the knock came again.

"Why don't you answer the door?"

Clark kissed Diana's shoulder. The taste salty from their mutual exertion.

"Because it's warm right here and I don't want to get up."

A third knock.

Diana turned in his arms. "I'm not going anywhere, Clark. Go see who's at your door. It might be an emergency."

"I doubt it." He sounded like a petulant child. But, really, if there were an emergency, whoever was on the other side of the door wouldn't come looking for Clark Kent.

When Clark stood from the bed, body as naked as the day he was born, Diana leaned over and smacked him on his ass. "Hurry back. My fingers are itching to play with your beard again."

"Very funny. You and my beard need to get a room."

"Good idea." Diana winked at Clark before turning away and burrowing under the covers.

A fourth knock.

Rushing, Clark scooped up his jeans and too-small T-shirt. Eight seconds later, he was dressed and at the door. Having foregone his underwear and glasses in his haste to get rid of the person knocking on his door and back to his toasty bed and Diana's even warmer body.

Yanking open the door, Clark said, "Sorry I took so long getting to the door. I was in the middle of something and didn't want to lose my train of thought."

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
